


and amidst this blinding pleasure

by ayuminb



Series: Jonsa Kink Week [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (they just want to have their own pack ok?), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Porn, Breeding, F/M, Jonsa Kink Week, Jonsa babies - Freeform, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 03:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13561764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: “Jon… put a Stark in me.”





	and amidst this blinding pleasure

_“Jon… put a Stark in me.”_

 

He wonders if it’s him, if there’s something wrong with him; why else, _why else_ would he peak so hard upon hearing those words? Spill with devastating force into her – Gods, it’s not even a command. A request, a heartfelt whisper to his ear, a _need_. A prayer against his lips as she moves to match his thrusts, as she sweeps her thumb over his bottom lip, rakes her nails down his back and tightens her legs around his hips.

 

Jon can’t find it in himself to _refuse_.

 

 _How many more_ , he wishes to ask, but doesn’t, _won’t_. He knows the answer; he’s already put three babes in her in the handful of years that’ve passed since the end of the Great War, and he’ll keep doing it until she tells him to stop. _And she won’t_ , he thinks, she won’t ever tell him to stop. Until absolutely necessary.

 

_Now it’s necessary._

 

It isn’t just that he’s fathered three bastards on her—that’s an agonizing issue on its own, yet not one that prevents Jon from falling onto her bed again and again. Queen she might be, naming them all Stark, but the people _know_. They can’t prove anything—and some don’t even care, while others care too much—however, he’s sure they _all_ know.

 

Their Stark looking girls, quick to smile and laugh and always, _always_ happy. Coming up to him with arms open wide, seeking his comfort or simply wanting to be cradled against his chest. The two eldest at least, Jonelle and Dacey, as they’re the one who can walk and talk; the youngest, Lyanna, still a babe, has barely learned how to sit up without help. So his eldest daughters – they cling to his neck and whisper secrets into his ear among soft giggles.

 

 _Secrets_ – there’s only one secret, _him_ , what he is to them. _Papa, Papa, Papa_. The one secret Sansa taught them to guard fiercely; the one lie they speak openly to the world. And it shouldn’t bother him, not when he agreed to this willingly, but it _does_.

 

“Jon.”

 

A light touch to his chest and his focus snaps back, gaze falling on Sansa, always a soothing sight to his frayed nerves. However, not tonight, not with the maester’s words circling his head. _Danger_ , another babe might put her life in danger, something they can’t afford. Not now. Not in the middle of the longest winter, when their resources are low and travel to gather any missing herb or medicinal plant is near impossible.

 

Jon _would_ brave the snowstorms, if he has to, if it comes to that. But he’d much rather it does not come to that; he prefers to wait, until spring, to have another babe. “Sansa—”

 

“It’s alright,” she smiles, pulls off her shift and smallclothes, then pushes him onto the bed.

 

Jon curses himself for going gladly. Laments his broken resolve once she sits astride on his hips, grinding, rubbing her cunt over his breeches until his cock is hard and straining against the fabric. And then he curses his lack of control even _harder_. It’s the sight of her smile, her soft fingers pulling at his laces; the sight of her large breasts and the thin lines over them, around her waist and hips and over her belly. White but noticeable even in her pale skin. That _sight_ – it makes his blood sing.

 

It also makes him stop.

 

“Sansa,” he grabs her hands, pulls them away from their task, “the maester said—”

 

“Might,” she cuts him off, gently but with a steely undercurrent to her words. “The maester said _might_. That is not a certainty.”

 

But Jon remembers the day Lyanna was born, no more than six months ago. How exhausted Sansa had looked then, how fragile; it had taken her over a fortnight to recover fully. At times Jon had feared the worst. Then the maester had told her – _time_ , she needed to let more time pass between each babe. Casting furtive glances his way, _reproachful_ , the old man reminded Sansa of Dacey, how she’d let two years pass after birthing Jonelle before getting with child again. How she’d not done the same the third time, as Dacey had been barely four months of age when she’d gone to see him and he’d confirmed yet another pregnancy.

 

He remembers that, and he fear the worst again. “I won’t have you be in danger—”

 

She shakes her head, leans down to silence any further protest with a fervent kiss. “I won’t be,” she mumbles, “I promise I won’t be.” Her hands break free of his hold, feeble that it is, and dive to stroke him over his breeches. “I just want a son— _Jon_.”

 

A jolt of pleasure travels down his spine, leaving his blood thrumming in its wake. He flips them over, leans in for another kiss; one of his hands going for her tits. Gently, he squeezes gently because now they’re sensitive – _I must remember that_. He starts at the feel of her fingers wrapping around his cock, a groan tumbling past his lips as he breaks the kiss. Sansa strokes him once, twice, and then she’s swift in pushing his breeches down his hips and thighs; her legs are quick to lock around his waist, pulling him closer still. _Aye_ , she won’t let him distract her as he’s done in previous night, when he buried his face between her legs and left her boneless and sated and happy with his tongue and fingers alone.

 

“Give me a son, Jon,” she draws him in for a tender kiss, so at odds with the wickedness of her hands, guiding his cock into her. “ _A son_. Put another Stark in my belly.”

 

A son. That’s something Jon’s always wanted. Daughters and sons and—a _family_. His sinks into her gladly, echoing her moans once he’s buried in her fully. A _son_ , another babe. His thrusts are shallow, at first, slow but taking care to go rub her where it gives her the most pleasure; then he picks up speed, gradually, pulling out further before slamming back in. Faster and harder he goes, building up a rhythm – shallow, then deep, then rolling his hips into her so he can press into her little bundle of nerves. Sansa gasps, shudders, back arching as her fingers dig into his arms; she whimpers, mumbling encouragements and all kinds of promises to keep him happy.

 

But Jon’s already happy, just like this, fucking her in earnest as the thought of fathering another child rings loud in his mind. _A son, we’ll have a son this time_. The tension makes his muscles go taut, heat pools in his groin and he’s so, so, _so close_ ; Jon sits up and back on his heels, grabbing her waist firmly, perhaps a bit to firmly, but now – now he won’t let go. Not yet. Her hips are elevated to accommodate this new position but she certainly doesn’t mind, not when she’s on the verge of reaching her high. _As many as you want_. Then he moves his thumb over her, rubbing rapid circles over her nub—that tears a gasp out of her, mouth open wide in a scream that gets trapped in her throat. Head thrown back, back arching off the bed – Jon’s never seen anything more glorious. Has never felt anything as good as her cunt squeezing him tight; he spills inside her with a strangled groan.

 

And amidst the blinding pleasure, a single thought:

 

_We can name him—_


End file.
